


just making things worse.

by eoghainy



Category: Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-24 17:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16645064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eoghainy/pseuds/eoghainy





	1. when i see you again.

“Where is Chris?” Claire demanded, going up to the counter blocking the people in the waiting room from the nurse behind the desk. “Christopher Redfield, he came in with the S.T.A.R.S. teams,” impatiently, her fingers drummed against the cool surface. “I’m his sister, Claire Redfield. You called our foster parents, and I came instead.” 

“Well, they’re still seeing him in the emergency room,” the nurse mused. She hadn’t looked up at Claire yet. “He had a lot of injuries that needed tending to, as did everyone else in S.T.A.R.S. You know you’re not the first to come up and demand to see a family member? You can see him when the doctor says it’s all clear.” 

“ _Please_ ,” she begged. “It’s important. I haven’t — I haven’t seen him in years. I need to see him. I need to know that he’s really _okay_.” 

It took a bit of convincing, and maybe a bit of bribery, but eventually the disgruntled nurse led Claire back towards the emergency room. First, they had to pass through the waiting room, which was filled with people from the Raccoon City Police department, other S.T.A.R.S. branches that Claire wasn’t familiar with, and people that she could only guess were family and close friends. Her heart dropped when one of them gave her a nasty glare, one filled with grief. That meant . . . not everybody made it out. 

Pushing open a heavy door, the nurse held it for Claire before leading her back to the emergency room patient areas. There were a few cots outside pressed up against walls, the sheets dirty and blood stained, and a few of the curtains were drawn around the patient areas, but surprisingly it was mostly empty. The S.T.A.R.S. members that needed medical attention were clustered together, seemingly not ready to part.

With the nurse taking her leave, Claire stepped closer to them all, her voice caught in her throat. They all looked battered and exhausted. There was Barry, Brad, Rebecca, Jill . . . if they were the surviving members, including her brother, S.T.A.R.S. had to be finished.

“Hey, Claire!” A voice tinged with excitement drew her attention, and before she could respond, a pair of arms were briefly wrapped around her and her senses were attacked by the rank stenches of smoke, sweat, blood, and gunpowder. Jill Valentine was stepping back when Claire finally found her ability to speak. “You’re here,” a smile took over Jill’s grungy features. “Chris will be glad to see you.”

“My foster parents got the call and I came over as soon as I could,” Claire’s voice was distracted. “I had to see him. Is he okay?”

No one answered her right away. Taking this moment to really look at them all, the youngest Redfield couldn’t help but feel pity for them all. 

Jill seemed to be best off of them all; though she was dirty, reeking of several rank things that Claire couldn’t put a name to, and stained with soot, she didn’t have a lot of wounds but a crudely bandaged gash on her right shin and a couple of surface cuts and bruises. Albeit, part of her clothing was singed away on her upper left arm and her skin was red and swollen, but she was relatively okay.

From this distance, Claire could hear Rebecca wheezing. The youngest of them was hunched over on the floor, her hand resting between her ribs. Her eye sockets looked shadowed and her face gaunt, specked with blood and ash. She had several wounds that intersected each other on her forearms, and her pants were ripped all the way up to her knee on the right side. Though the bleeding had stopped, there was a nasty deep wound that needed to be seen.

Brad was also relatively unhurt. Except for a black eye, a broken nose, and swelling to his head, he was more untouched than Jill. At the most, he just seemed shaken, which was completely understandable. 

On the other hand, Barry, was a mess. Blood was still drying on his chin from cracked lips, and they were swollen from taking a heavy blow. One finger was twisted at an awkward angle, and his shoulder was sickeningly popped out of place. If he knew something, he wasn’t talking; his teeth were dug into his tongue and he was going to continue upholding his silence. 

“He’s in shock.” Rebecca offered finally, her voice raspy. “Bad shock. Hasn’t spoken a word since we got here, which is weird for him. You know your brother,” _not sure that I really do anymore_ , Claire thought bitterly, “he always has something to say.” Rebecca’s hand carded through her short hair as she continued breathlessly. “From what I saw, he had a bite on his upper arm from a cerberus that they were worried about, and a gash on his forehead, so I think they’re stitching it up right now and checking to see if that was it or not. Maybe they’re trying to give him a chance to adjust, snap back into it without being pressured, I don’t know. He will be fine, though.”  

“Cerberus?” 

“A type of fucking hellhound.” Barry grunted, breaking his silence. “Got one of us when we arrived at that shithole. Poor Joseph, what an awful way to die, ripped apart by one of those fucking things.” 

“Where . . . where is Wesker? Richard? Forest, Kenneth, Enrico?” Claire frowned, looking for more familiar S.T.A.R.S. members. She was only hoping that at the sounds of their names they’d come bleeding out of the walls to show that they were okay. But it was just hope. Empty hope. “Are you guys the only survivors?” 

All of their faces grew somber. Tears pricked in Rebecca’s eyes. Bracing herself for the news of more death, Claire turned towards Jill, who seemed to be the only one able to talk about it just yet.

“Richard died saving Chris from Neptune, some type of fucking shark that this Umbrella was working on. Kenneth died when we got there. We all heard the shots in the entry way and I guess Chris solved the mystery of what happened to him. Forest . . . had been dead for a while before that. We think he got there before all of us and perished before our team had even been dispatched. Wesker, though? The son of a bitch took me captive, took Barry by surprise and incapacitated him, killed Enrico to shut him up, shot Rebecca, tried to kill Chris, and got his in the end.” 

Claire’s jaw went slack with surprise. “He was a _traitor_? How?” 

“He was working for this Umbrella Corporation, which was a cosmetic company outwardly. If I know Chris,” Jill scoffed, “he’ll want to hunt them down. I hope not. I hope this was sobering enough to get his recklessness to tone down and realize that this is bigger than all of us.”

For a moment, jealousy hit Claire hard. The years had been bad for her and her brother. She knew next to nothing about him now, except what she could vaguely recall from the deepest corners of her mind, and even that was vague. Here she was listening to Jill, his partner, who knew him better than Claire did. 

During her teenage years, hanging on Chris’ every letter, Claire had built a mental image of a war hero in her mind pertaining to her brother. This badass warrior who got himself on the S.T.A.R.S. team, who had so much talent and could offer any squadron he was placed on wonderful things. It wasn’t fair to place him on such a high pedestal, for once she got to know him all over again, her perfect image of him was going to fracture.

Jill went on, oblivious to Claire’s sudden realization. “Chris will tell you the full thing when he’s ready.” 

The curtain hiding Chris and his doctor from view pulled back, and a tired looking older man stepped out. “A couple of nurses will be with you few soon,” he said in a strained voice, “and then when you’ve all been given the green light, you can go. This guy, Chris, can go too. If his family is here, make sure they take him and he doesn’t go on his own.”

“Thank you,” Rebecca called, whilst Barry just made a noncommittal grunt. 

“I’m going in.” Claire said firmly, and Jill made a sweeping motion, choosing to step aside. 

The curtains weren’t open all the way, and not ready yet to see him, Claire took her time in sliding between them and making sure that she closed them behind her. Facing the white pattern, Claire took a deep breath before turning around, prepared to have her unrealistic mental image fracture and be replaced with the reality of Christopher Redfield.

Her older brother was wrapped in a thermal blanket, his eyes blank and staring at something that she couldn’t see. Those bronze hues flicked onto her, but it was like he was looking right _through_ her. Within a moment they were off of her again, but no recognition crossed his face. He didn’t see her, or he didn’t know her. Claire’s heart sank.

Chris’ lips were chapped and bloody, and his face was extraordinarily pale, almost as if all of his blood had drained out of him. There were stitches lining the curve of his forehead on the left side of his face, looking raw and painful. The area around them was red. There was dried blood crusted behind his ear and all over his clothes, as well as soot and ash and numerous other things that Claire couldn’t identify. His clothes were torn and ripped to shreds, and there were numerous other gashes, burns and bruises that made a messy pattern across his skin. What really caught her eye were the stitches across his right bicep; this . . . _cerberus_ must have torn deeply, for blood still welled around the fresh stitches, and there were so many that she couldn’t bear to count. 

She remembered him always sitting up straight, with his shoulders back and his chest puffed out. Now, he sat with his shoulders rounded and curved in upon themselves, almost looking as if he were a frail young boy in need of much assistance. His hands were trembling in his lap, and the closer Claire got, the more details she could pick out about him.

The dried blood and dirt underneath his nails, the slight wheeze to his breath indicating that he had broken ribs, the blood crusted in his hair, the burns on his palms . . .

“Chris?” Claire whispered, hesitantly putting her hand on his shoulder. She didn’t want to hurt him, but he didn’t respond to her touch. “Are you . . . Chris? Hey, Chris,” gently, she shook his shoulder, hoping to snap him out of it. 

“ _Richard_ ,” he managed to get out in contorted voice, swallowing dryly. He licked his lips, but the blood still remained. He wasn’t aware that she was there before him. Chris wasn’t aware that it was _Claire_ and not Richard. She could only imagine how horrifying it had been to see one of your friends get devoured by a shark right before your eyes. And the fact that Richard saved Chris’ life? It had to be haunting her brother more than she realized. 

Nudging Chris over on the cot, Claire climbed up onto it with him, pulling the thermal blanket so that it could drape over the two of them. Despite being in the basic S.T.A.R.S. clothing and wrapped in the blanket, his skin was cold and clammy. She snuggled in close to his side, resting her head on his shoulder. His muscles grew stiff and terse underneath her touch, but quickly grew lax again. As if quietly acknowledging her, his head rested upon hers, and a childish sense of grief filled her. Grief for the years they had lost, no, the years that Chris had sacrificed to support her, grief for the way he was turning out, for the things he was experiencing, for what he had gotten into.

And even a small shred of regret, for not being there to stop him from leaving. Things would have been so much different if he had just _stayed_.

“I’m sorry, Chris,” she whispered, not knowing if she was sorry for not stopping him, or sorry for not trying harder to find him, or even for not keeping in better contact with him. She didn’t know if she was sorry for what he had gone through, partially on her behalf, or if she was sorry for even coming. She wasn’t sure if he had heard her, and frankly, she didn’t think she minded. There would be time soon for him to register that his sister was here for him, and that they would no longer be such a mess.

“We’ll figure this out.” 


	2. promises made.

Claire’s room was dark, completely unfamiliar to him unlike the one she had in their old house. Chris was sure he was going to bang his shin on her bedside table or on the bed once or twice on his way over to her, but miraculously he didn’t. Hesitantly, Chris sat down on the side of her bed, shakily pushing her hair off of her forehead. She looked so peaceful when she slept, not at all worn down by the responsibilities that made Chris’ shoulders round. 

Carefully, Chris slid an envelope underneath her pillow, keeping it peeking out enough so that she would be able to see it in the morning. Within were a picture of their parents on their wedding day, his note of goodbye, and their parents wedding rings. In the Air Force, he wouldn’t be needing them anymore. Though it physically hurt him to do this, he had to. He had no other choice.

This was one of the hardest decisions he was being forced to make in his entire life. Since their parent’s death, Claire _was_ his life; she was only eleven, she needed all the help that Chris could afford to give her. She needed him to stay with her, to be her support, to be her new parent and take care of her. Sure, having foster parents was going to be good for her, but they couldn’t give her what Chris could. They didn’t know her like he did; they _wouldn’t_ know her. But at the same time, he wasn’t a legal adult yet, didn’t have his own house, didn’t have a serious job, and really couldn’t be there for her if he was working to keep her comfortable and supported all the time.

His letter basically explained what he was doing. Running away from their new home to join the Air Force, so that any earnings he did get he can send back to her. He can put into a trust fund for her, or into a college fund. He wanted Claire to have every opportunity that he didn’t have because their parents just didn’t have the money. A few days prior, he had also set up a living trust; something that would give Claire possession over all of his belongings and be able to sell them off if she so chooses _if_ he came to some sort of fatal harm. 

He also put in some information for her future: if she so desired, she could pawn off the gems in their mothers wedding ring for some fast cash, and sell their fathers pure gold ring as well. It wasn’t something he wanted to put in there, but he felt that it was necessary. He had no clue for how long he was going to be gone, but if all went the way he thought it was going to go, he’d be stuck out there for a few years before being able to cycle back to visit her for a couple of days. At that point he could file for legal custody of her, and figure out where to take his life from there. 

Yet, there was always that chance that he was going to perish and be unable to do any of that. Or that they wouldn’t cycle him back in time. Or that he might have to go back too soon and have to withdraw his claim for custody.

There were too many factors that were working against him, too many things that would plague his mind and make him worry more for her.

 _I’m so sorry, Claire_ , he thought, moving his hand to smooth her hair off her forehead again. Her short bangs fell back into her eyes, and she gave a soft sigh, quickly falling back into the deep throes of sleep. _I know you wanted me to be here with you, to experience this with you and eventually grow to love our foster parents as we did our own, but I want to do everything that I can to help you. Me staying here wouldn’t help you at all. Please understand why I’m doing this, and please forgive me. I will always come back for you, I promise._

Bending over, he pressed his lips gently to her temple, hardly able to hold back hot tears. He had to leave now, or else he’d miss his opportunity entirely. She made a noise of complaint, but still remained asleep. The bed creaked as he stood up, but since it was so early in the morning, Claire wouldn’t wake. She was a deep sleeper in the early hours of the morning, so nothing but loud noises would really wake her.

“I love you,” he murmured, hoping that he wasn’t making the wrong choice. 


	3. say goodbye.

A warm wetness mixed with the cool feel of the rain slipped down his leg. A dull, pulsating ache where teeth had torn through the fabric of his pants and met with his bare skin kept his mind from wandering too far. He was the only one upon the ground, and he was the only one who had suffered the misfortune of being bitten. Ironic, wasn’t it? A Captain and a founder of this amazing organization, and he was going to die during one of the second biggest outbreaks since 2013. It was okay, though; it was okay. He didn’t mind. At least his life wasn’t going to end at the barrel of his own gun, or at the bottom of a bottle. 

No, this was honorable.

“Captain?” One of the boys asks. His Pointman, a good kid; honorable, sharp, and not to mention, quick. He had seen what had happened. His voice was a rasp. “Orders?”

Silence blankets the intercom, only broken by the sounds of ragged breathing and rain. There’s no gunshots, and for once, Chris is glad. His last moments will be peaceful. 

“It was an honor to have served.” He says, his voice catching in his throat. Easily, he tilts his head back and pulls his visor off, letting it fall onto the ground beside him as the rain begins to soak into his bare skin. It’s sad, he thinks, he’s nearly forty-four and he’s got so much life left to live. He had been looking forward to being a father, to getting married, better late than never. But every life must come to an end, and this is his end of the line. “You boys will do well without me. You’ll all go far with the B.S.A.A.” 

“Do you want us to . . .?” Their rookie asks, unable to finish the question. He doesn’t blame the boy.

“No, no,” Chris shakes his head, scattering water droplets. It’s dark out, and there are minimal lights illuminating their way, but he sees them gleaming out of the corner of his gaze. They look like miniature crystals, looking so beautiful until they shatter. He’s not upset, he’s not even sad about any of this. He’s . . . peaceful. Too peaceful, too calm. Too ready to look at his reaper and say: _“I’ve been evading you for so long, but now, now I am ready.”_

He knows that there is no hope for him. It was the T-virus, revisited. Not in the same manner of Raccoon, not in the same manner of China, but, different. It’s a separate strain, one that’s more deadly and more efficient. The data they’ve collected shows that it is airborne, and it can be spread through saliva. One of the drawbacks is that once you’re infected, you have one minute. Two minutes, tops, before you’re beginning to succumb. There’s no way to evade it. The creatures that come out of it are stronger than the ones from so long ago, retaining enough function to run and use the strength that they have inside. Not enough brain function remains for them to be cognitive, but enough for them to almost seem intelligent. 

With the virus being this way, it makes it absolutely impossible to take samples from an infected host. The host is dead too soon, and anyone in a nearby radius is in danger. Whomever had released the virus to begin with, as that was still unknown to all of the organizations in this dirty line of business, had truly been gunning for the end of the world. 

America, in almost all of its entirety, was infected. Most of Europe, Asia, and China, too. Australia took a heavy hit, and so did Africa. Other countries were dark, no one able to respond, so it was supposed they got hit heavier than anyone else. It was absolute chaos everywhere. All agents of any organization were to get their asses in gear and receive their orders, which were mostly among the same lines: find weakness, exploit it, fight them back to a tolerable point. Save the innocent. Beat the fucking _clock_ and get out alive. Save their world. 

Chris’ fingers brush against the holster at his hip, feeling gun almost burn against his thigh. For a moment, his eyes slip closed and he breathes steadily, mentally counting down the seconds he has left. When he reopens them, albeit, he could swear that he chokes. 

He sees two people before him that he hadn’t seen since he was seventeen: his parents. His mother, Annemarie, is standing with her arm looped through her husbands, her blue eyes tearful and her lips wobbling. She’s proud of him, he can see it in her eyes, but she’s sad. Sad because his life is ending too soon. Her hair is the same dark brown streaked with red, tucked back into the same neat braid. She’s beautiful, and Claire looks just like her. His father, Albert, is very stoic. But his bronze eyes are loving and he’s looking at his son with admiration. His own red hair is tufted up and is sparse across his cheeks and his jaw. Though his lips are hidden, Chris has to presume that they’re partially pulled up into a sad smile. They’re _so_ both proud of him, both anticipating him, but both grieving because he’s coming too soon. He can see it in their eyes, they don’t want him to join him just yet. They want him to live and experience.

Behind them, he can see the countless people he’s lost over the years; Forest and Joseph are smug and looking eager for a reunion, whereas Richard is hanging off of Enrico’s arm with a pleading look on his face, only turning to give Chris a quick flash of a grin. Brad and Kenneth are gently bickering, and Edward looks on with a roll of his eyes, but they’re all smiling and eager. Each and every one of his deceased comrades are a sight for sore eyes. 

But, _oh_ , it feels like a sharp blow to his solar plexus to see his more recent losses. Jeff, Keaton, Marco, Reid, Ben, Carl, _Andy_ — his boys are smiling, their gazes sad, but they’re offering a salute and Chris has to bite back a sob. All of them died under his command. His gaze roams a fraction to the left, and he sees the more recent two deaths that drove him to drink: rookie Finn MacCauley, and his most trusted, Piers Nivans. They’ve got their arms hooked around each other, and their eyes are gleaming so brightly. They’re living in the beyond, alive and okay, no longer in any pain. Piers gives Chris a little, proud nod, his expression content.

More and more of the people Chris has lost seems to filter in, as if ready to greet him and introduce him to their world. His eyes are roaming many faces, able to hear their voices within his mind as clear as ever. _It won’t be long, my friends, my family._ He promises silently. _I am on my way._

“Captain?” His Pointman calls, stirring him from his silent reflection. 

“You’ve all served me well, boys.” He states calmly, able to feel an uncomfortable heat rising from his core. He slides the gun from its holster, checking that the safety is off before checking how much ammo was left in it. “Don’t let my body go back home. I don’t want them to see me that way.”

His heart clenches as he thinks of his sister and of Jill. Claire would be beside herself, but she’d learn to live. Jill, though? His partner would do what she did best: compartmentalize, and try to live, for the sake of the B.S.A.A. and the future. Barry, oh, he’d grieve. He’d take it as a personal loss, even though they hadn’t seen each other since Chris was _really_ bad with his drinking. Leon, too; the friends he’s come to hold dear will have to move on.

“You don’t mean —” The rookie says, and Chris nods grimly. 

“When they hear this shot, they’ll flock to me. Use that as your escape. Go back to H.Q., get more orders, and then come back at it with a new strategy. Leave my body here. There will be no use for it.” Slowly, he slides his high collar back and adjusts himself so that his neck is tilted for easier access. “It’s better this way, boys.” 

Radio silence. Behind him, he hears the shuffling of his men as they get into position, their guns training upon him in case he fails to make it in time. Chris didn’t need them to do such a thing; he knew his time was up. It was the time to make a move now.

The barrel is cool as he presses it at the juncture of his chin and his neck, angling it just right. His thumb steadily pulls back the hammer, hearing the gun give a little _click_. Once more, his lungs fill with air, and then he’s squeezing the trigger.

A _crack_ rings out across the open space, and like he predicted, those whom had been unlucky enough to turn are running to investigate the noise. 

Chris is dead before he hits the ground.


	4. it's baser, primal.

The way his arm slides out is instinctual in its own right. In these types of situations, he knows himself. He knows how he falls prey to primal instincts that truly aren’t his own. He’s buried them for so long, refusing to believe that he could return to a baser existence with minimal provocation. No, he doesn’t want to think about how his body moves of its own accord and will, of how his brain refuses to function, how he simply compartmentalizes every little thing he comes across until its almost too much for him to bear. He doesn’t want to think of how he can become a monster so easily, not now and not ever.

Air, hot, stagnant and deadly, whips past his face and as his hand is flat against the collarbones of another. His entire body is flush with the wall, the tendons in his neck straining as his head is pulled back uncomfortably. His heart pounds far too rapidly in his chest, and he can hear his pulse throbbing behind his ears. But an eerie sense of calm fills him. 

“Leon,” her voice is soft and thick with horror. She’s new to this, he knows. She hasn’t seen half the horrors that he has. He almost missed her murmur over the roar of the train. 

The tail comes, and almost immediately they both relax. Leon’s hand doesn’t stray from Helena’s chest, his arm stuck out straight, muscles almost frozen. She’s pressed against his arm, looking at him inquisitively, unsure of how to react to him still holding her.

“Sorry,” Leon mutters, moving his hand away. Cautiously, he looks where the train came from to ensure that there was nothing there, and to where it disappeared, feeling unease rise within him. The zombies that were previously upon the tracks were now all, unfortunately, crushed. Their bodies began to disintegrate, becoming a grimy mess before seeping into the ground. 

A part of him wanted to hate this. A part of him truly wanted to hate this living hell, to escape it as soon as possible and go back to the world where things were okay. But a second part of him, a baser, purely primal existence that scared the fuck out of him, enjoyed it. Enjoyed the feel of working for every moment of his survival, of weeding out those who would survive and those who would die, of killing the shambling corpses that shouldn’t still exist, but do. It scares him. He shouldn’t enjoy living like this, but he does.

Once, when he and Chris were emailing before, the older Redfield had admitted the same thing. Though he wouldn’t wish for any outbreak to happen again, he _enjoyed_ living his life like that. He _enjoyed_ fighting for every aspect of survival. _Enjoyed_ weeding through the gunk and the gore and the decay. It was a baser level of existence, and Leon fucking loved it. They both fucking lived for it and admitted it over those emails. 

“C’mon, Helena,” Leon’s voice is sharp as he trudges down the tracks, ready to leap to the side to press against the wall if he needed to. “We need to get out of here.” 

“Right,” she replies, following after him dutifully. She’s a good girl, a bit suspicious, but overall seeming like a good person. But if push came to shove, if she did show ‘true’ colors, he’d put a bullet in her head faster than she could blink.

Leon couldn’t help it. It was survival of the fittest out here, and God damnit, these baser instincts were the fittest of them all.


	5. making me feel crazy.

“Christopher Redfield?” The voice that said his name was cool and callous, unfamiliar, but professional. At first, Chris didn’t even know she had called his name. He had been so engulfed in his paperwork ( _such a shocker_ ) that Jill had to elbow him in his still-tender ribs to get his attention. He had looked over at his partner with a glare before she motioned to the woman, and Chris froze, shame gripping him. 

She was standing in front of their desk, her hands clasped at the small of her back, lips pursed. Her expression showed him that she was unimpressed already, clearly annoyed with his lack of respect. Her one hand dropped so she could drum her fingers on his desk, lips pulling down into a frown. If looks could kill, then Chris presumed that he’d be dead ten times over. 

Clearing his throat and leaning back in his chair as if he could escape her gaze, he spoke. “Yes?” 

Still, the woman looked unimpressed. “Your superior ordered psychological evaluations for all of his S.T.A.R.S. members. I already checked out Brad Vickers, and your partner Jill Valentine, and you’re next on my list.” Falsely kind mocha eyes gazed down at him, and there was a note of authority in her voice that Chris couldn’t find the will, or energy, to argue with. Already, he decided, he didn’t like her. 

Looking back at Jill and seeing the resentment that gleamed in her pale hues, Chris hesitated. Jill was usually good at keeping her emotions under wrap, so this was unfamiliar. He was unsettled by it. “Can you handle without me for a bit?”

Jill swallowed before she spoke, struggling with control over herself. “Yeah, I can. Go on, Chris. Don’t worry about it.” 

Chris slid out of his seat and Jill popped over into it, her hand gently gracing his before he had to pull away, hurrying to catch up to the woman. She had already turned and disappeared out of their new office, her heels clicking loudly in comparison to the soft footfalls of Chris’ black jungle boots. This woman had never been out on the field before, he knew; he could tell by the way she moved and the way she held herself. She was soft, _green_ in Barry’s own words, and completely blind to the horrors that Chris had seen in both the Air Force and in that fucking mansion. Perhaps she hadn’t even seen a dead body before, Chris would have put a bet down on it if anyone else was around.

Where her shoulders were held proud and properly, Chris’ were taut, stiff, ready to snap into action at any given moment. Where her steps were confident and loud, Chris’ were quiet and wary, always stepping lightly, almost as if he were terrified of treading across a landmine or stepping on something living. Where she ignored the little things that she saw or heard, Chris paid attention to them constantly; he evaluated if they were a threat, or if it was something to worry about later on. Call it paranoia, but he wasn’t about to be caught off guard again, even in territory that he was familiar with. 

The woman led him to an unmarked room at the end of one of the unused hallways of the department. He hadn’t been in there before, for Irons liked to keep a tight grip upon his officers and make sure that they weren’t going to places that they weren’t supposed to be. Brad once said that he had gotten into one of the restricted rooms once and Irons had ended up tearing him a new one. It would have seemed suspicious to Chris that Irons didn’t want them to go into unused rooms, but the chief was a paranoid man, and often questions led to weeks of desk duty that Chris was not prepared to serve out. 

Albeit, this woman unlocked the knob as if she had nothing else to do in the world, and held the door open for Chris to come inside after her. If she noticed any of his hesitance, she didn’t comment on it. At least her demeanor seemed to have changed considerably towards him. She seemed a bit warmer, but still held a sense of professionalism which he didn’t mind. He still didn’t like her, though. Jill could be a bit standoffish towards people, but he had never seen someone make her . . . uneasy. If she made _Jill_ of all people uneasy, then he wasn’t going to take any chances. 

The interior was nicely furnished with expensive furniture from a store down the road, yet it seemed bare. No personal touch was added to the room. There was a desk with a leather swiveling office chair pushed into one corner, along with a lamp and a computer set up, and a base phone. There was a notebook resting on the corner of the desk as well, and the writing inside of it was neat and small, written in pencil. Closer to the doorframe, there was a nice blue lounge with matching cushions resting on it, and if Chris were any sort of intelligent, he presumed that’s where he’d be sitting. 

Across from it was a nice dark chair with an ottoman in front of it, and a second short table that had a cup with pens and pencils in it. There was a water bottle on it as well, set upon a coaster, dripping with condensation. The room wasn’t that warm, but it was sitting directly in a nice ray of sunlight. It was the little things that Chris noticed about this unused little area. The white walls with hardly no stains on them, the wooden floors with no scratches, the windows with the curtains drawn on all of them except for one; the one behind her chair. If he had anything to gather from it, then he’d be certain that this was more of a temporary office than anything.

“Sit, please,” the woman motioned to the lounge. Satisfaction welled within Chris at his easy prediction, but he did as he was bid. The lounge was firm and uncomfortable underneath him, so Chris stuffed a cushion behind the small of his back, finding that it wasn’t much better. Grunting, he shifted, wondering if this was intentional in order to keep him on edge. 

She sat in the chair across from him, reaching back onto the desk to grab the notebook. Pulling a clipboard that was hooked onto it, Chris tried to catch a quick glimpse of what she had on it, but she had it angled away from him so that he couldn’t tell. As he watched, she reached for a pencil, turning back to look at him with a quirked brow. 

“So, you’re going to be deciding if I’m crazy or not, huh?” Chris asked sarcastically and the woman’s expression turned sour. She still hadn’t given him her name. Weird. 

“No, Christopher,” he tensed. Only Wesker called him Christopher on a casual basis, and Wesker was fucking _dead_. If she noticed his sudden change, she didn’t let on. “We’re going to go over the events that happened at the Spencer Estate. I have your report right here, and it says that you reported that the pharmaceutical and cosmetic company called _Umbrella_ was running illicit experiments upon the Trevor family, and was gathering data from the S.T.A.R.S. teams? That they were planning on killing you twelve?” Her voice was cool. Too cool. Why was she regarding him as if he was crazy? Unease continue to fill him.

Thinking over his words for a moment, Chris ended up nodding. That was a safe option. “Yes. Reports that I found in Trevor Residence and the labs underneath the Spencer Estate confirmed that Umbrella was running unethical tests upon the people living on the estates property, and that Albert Wesker created S.T.A.R.S. to lead t — . . . _us_ , eventually to the estate to see how we would fare against the prototype Tyrant, which Jill Valentine, Rebecca Chambers and myself fought and killed before the self-destruct mechanism in the Spencer Estate went off. Unfortunately, any evidence we had of any of this was lost.”

The woman nodded along, but she didn’t seem to be listening too closely. Distractedly, she adjusted her papers, tapping them on the clipboard to even them out. “This . . . Tyrant,” she said the word like it wasn’t the one she wanted to use, “you describe it as being ‘ _larger than life_ ’?”

“It was taller than most of the houses in this town.” Chris replied icily. “I had to take it out with a rocket launcher that Brad dropped down for me. It was _not_ an easy kill.” His throat felt as if it was beginning to close up in fear at the thought of it.

“All of your stories seem to correlate quite nicely.” She leafed through the papers, her lips pursing. “Did you all go over them whilst in that helicopter before returning back here to make your official reports?” The woman fixed him with her dark gaze, no like for Chris appearing at all in her expression. “That seems to be the most plausible route, right, Christopher?” She did _not_ like him.

“What?” Chris felt confusion creeping up within him. “‘ _Stories_ ’ — what we went through out there wasn’t _fake_ , it was _real_. We walked into hell, and we walked back out of hell into the real world. Do you think we would make any of this up? Intentionally do this to ourselves?” Pushing back his hair that miraculously _wasn’t_ spiked up for the first time in a long time, he showed the woman what Lisa Trevor had permanently left him with. 

The stitches lining the curve of his forehead on the left side of his face were still raw, feeling ugly and painful. The skin around the wound was just as tender as the wound itself, almost as if infection was creeping in, despite Chris’ struggles to keep it clean. His skin still sensitive to the touch, as if he were bruised from what had happened. Over the course of the past couple of weeks, he had been suffering from the side-effects of a concussion, keeping a careful watch upon himself so he didn’t accidentally die in his sleep. After all that he had gone through, he would not die like that.

“ _This_?” He spat out through gritted teeth.

Yanking up the sleeve of his S.T.A.R.S. short sleeved uniform t-shirt, Chris revealed the gaping crater in his flesh where that fucking Cerberus had bitten him. There were deep scrape marks around the wound too, where the creature hadn’t been able to find a good purchase upon his skin and had struggled. Most of the muscle and the tissue was gone, revealing the horrific sight of exposed sinewy muscles and tendons that would never be the same. For a moment, he thought he saw the woman’s eyes widen, but it happened too quickly for him to be sure.

“We made none of this up. It happened. _All_ of it. Every word in those reports are true.” Chris fixed his shirt, yanking it down to cover the wound. He washed it several times a day to ensure that he didn’t have the fucking T-Virus that he had read about, though he was sure that it would have gotten him by now if the Cerberus had managed to pass it onto him. The only threat now had to be infection, but he wasn’t going to allow himself to succumb to such a thing. No, if anything, he was going to die at the wrong end of a gun. Or perhaps, in his addled mind, the right end.

The woman crossed her legs, pulling her skirt down to cover her thighs more. He thought she almost seemed nervous, uneasy. “All of that can be explained rationally,” she started calmly, “you fell down a flight of stairs and hit your head, or Albert Wesker jumped you and knocked you out with blunt force. A rabid dog bit you and tore out your flesh.” 

Frustrated, Chris lunged to his feet, knocking the lounge back and making it appear crooked. He was thankful that there was no coffee table in front of him, knowing that he would have bashed his shins if there had been one. “That — no, _no_ , I know what happened that night. I was there. I saw it all with my own eyes. It _happened_. There’s no way I could have made half of that shit up on my own.” 

“I’m not denying that it happened, Christopher, please _sit back down_.” Reluctantly, he did, not wanting to mess with the commanding tone in her voice. “I’m giving you a rational answer to what you _think_ happened. You experienced a traumatic event at the Spencer Estate, there is no denying that. You were alone for so long, cold, wet, injured; your brain made up an absurd reason as to why things were happening. Zombies. Zombified dogs. Tyrants. Evil Umbrella. Hunters. Neptune. Yawn. They weren’t real; they were hallucinations that your brain created to give you a way to cope and take a short break from reality.”

She tucked a long lock of white blonde hair behind her ear. It looked perfect. Too perfect. Her eyes were too dark, too rich in color. There was something dangerous in her eyes, something that glinted and reminded him of a predator. Whoever this woman was, she was terrifying. She held the power in this room, not him. He felt small and frail, like a mouse pinned underneath a cat’s heavy paw. Her claws were steadily sinking into him and he longed to fight back, but there was nothing he could say. 

“Richard was bitten by a venomous snake, a kind not uncommon in the Arklay Mountains, and he perished to the venom. You didn’t reach him in time to save his life with what you called ‘Serum’. Enrico was shot by Albert Wesker, whom had previously snapped, and turned on S.T.A.R.S. because of the pressure that had been placed upon him by Irons. Forest perished in the estate explosion. Everyone else in your team, everyone in Bravo Team and the deceased members in Alpha Team, were lost in the mountains. They succumbed to natural deaths. Joseph had been ripped apart by same rabid dogs that came after you. Everyone else, albeit, they were caught in the explosion. Accidents, Christopher. That is how everyone else died. There were no supernatural occurrences, no tests, nothing.” 

Chris’ hands were trembling as he twisted them together in his lap. “That’s not true,” he tried in a rough voice, struggling to keep himself under control. He could feel a snap building in him.

“You have PTSD, Christopher. PPD, too, which is short for _Paranoid Personality Disorder_. You’ve got several anxiety disorders, and other mental disorders that I _will_ find. Your brain made it all up.” 

 _No_. “I’m not crazy.”

“I did not say you were crazy.” 

“You’re insinuating it.”

“I am not insinuating anything; I am just telling you what you suffer from.” 

“What I _suffer from_? I’m not sick.”

“You are mentally ill, Christopher Redfield. You saw and survived horrible things when you were in the Air Force, when you were just a young boy. You did things in S.T.A.R.S., rough things that weren’t quite required of you but you did it anyway. This incident at the Spencer Estate, what you _think_ happened, was because of your mental illness. None of it, Christopher, was actually real. Creatures like that don’t exist, and never will.” 

“You’re _wrong_ ,” Chris was grasping at straws. He couldn’t believe what this woman was telling him, how could she stand to be so _ignorant_? Why was she so dense? All of them had seen the same things, been through the same things, of _course_ their stories would correlate! 

“No, I am not.” Her voice sounded sad. “I’m just trying to help you, Christopher.” The woman pulled out what looked like a prescription pad, beginning to write upon it. 

“I’m not taking anything.” Chris snapped, sourly folding his arms over his chest. _Now_ he could see why Brad and Jill hadn’t spoken of what had happened. “There is _no way_.” 

“It will be here for when you need it.” She answered breezily. With slight fingers, she pulled the paper off of the pad, leaning forward so she could put it on the cushion next to him. Defiantly, he made a point not to acknowledge it, instead choosing to fixate his glare upon her. She didn’t seem unnerved in the slightest, and when Chris failed to break the silence that settled between them, she spoke instead.

“Now, I was curious about you.” She admitted, re-crossing her legs. “I took a look into your financials to get a better grasp upon you. I dug back into your personal life, too. You caused your parents deaths when you were seventeen, isn’t that correct?” 

Chris’ throat tightened, but he didn’t say anything. He could feel the rage within him beginning to swell.

“You told the police officers that they were out on the road because of you, yes? They had picked you up from a party, drunk, and because you had forgotten something important there, you made them go back. They were hit head on by an out of control vehicle, deemed an accident, but you blamed yourself.” 

“What are you getting at?” Chris managed to get out levelly. He didn’t know how he did, but it managed to surprise the woman. She arched an eyebrow at him, a smile beginning to pull at the corners of her lips. 

“You lied to the state and government for a total of seven months. You said that you were living with a guardian, but during that time you dropped out of school and picked up odd jobs to take care of your younger sister. When you were found out, _both_ of you were put into foster care, where you were quickly placed, yes?” 

Chris’ jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

“Your sister is what got you placed. No one wanted a problematic seventeen-year-old angsty boy who was far too overprotective, and didn’t listen to direction. So, within that first week of being placed, you took off. Left no indication of where you were going; just went off and joined the Air Force. Still a minor, of course, but you lied to them, too. But what confused me was the fact that you chose the _Air Force_. After all you had gone through before, why distance yourself completely from your sister?” 

She laughed, a cold sound, one that he didn’t like. “So, I looked deeper. I discovered that your parents were lacking in the money department, and that you suffered through periods of having no money for months at a time. You didn’t have a college fund set up, but your sister, Claire, right? She had one. One that you had been depositing money into ever since nineteen-eighty-six. By that deduction, I presume you were thirteen at the time when you began putting money into it. In early nineteen-ninety, I noticed an oddity; there were large sums of money being transferred from incognito and liquidated accounts and deposited in hers. Naturally, I traced it.” 

“Oh, _naturally_.” Chris snapped, but fell silent when she fixed him with a glare.

“Through some investigation and tracing, I found the trail. It was a confusing, nearly non-existent trail, but I had found it nonetheless. I will give you credit, Christopher; you were very smart. Every earning you got from the Air Force was put into her college account, indirectly, but put there all the same. More recently, in the past two years, I saw that your payments from S.T.A.R.S. were getting put in there, too. She has more than enough money to go to college now, so I thought to myself: _Why does he keep depositing money when she’s all set?_ Well, I figured it out.” 

“Please, enlighten me.” He sneered, but his heart pounding wildly. 

“You feel guilty for leaving her. You left to provide for her, but you left her alone all the same. She needed you, and you were gone. You don’t ever want her to suffer like you once did, you didn’t ever want her to know what it was like to struggle for money or for the simplest things. You still provide for her even though you don’t have to because you’re feeling guilty. Because you’ll always feel guilty about leaving. Does she even know you’re still doing such a thing?” 

Chris inevitably softened, closing his eyes tightly. “No. She thinks I stopped.”

“You are putting yourself through a hard time with money simply for Claire’s sake. What if . . . all that money was to disappear?” Her voice dropped several octaves, and Chris froze. “If _both_ of your accounts were frozen, and your money assumed back by the government as compensation for the fraud?” 

He was speechless. He could beg, oh he could _beg_ , but he wasn’t that type of person.

“Poor, poor Claire, getting caught up in something that she barely understands. It would be a shame if your years of protecting and providing for her went to waste.”

“Are you _threatening me_?” His voice was seething with poorly contained rage.

“I don’t know, Christopher,” she met his gaze evenly. “Am I?” 

For a long moment, they stared each other down. It was a rough moment. Chris was poised to strike if she so said another word against his sister, and she was poised to fight him with her words and crush him back down to the place that he belonged. A dulled sense of horror settled in his chest. If he said another word, if he tried to fight back, she’d make him regret it.

Chris bit his tongue, waiting for her next move.

“Have I been clear here?” She asked. “Do we both understand what is happening here?”

 _I do,_ Chris thought bitterly. _You’re forcing my hand by threatening my sister._ He didn’t respond. _Threatening me, threatening Claire, to cover up what happened? A low blow. Truly, a low blow._

“Look into those medications,” the woman directed, changing the subject. “Think about what I said, think about the fact that things didn’t happen how you thought they happened. Think about your sister, Christopher.” 

“Don’t threaten her again.” Chris lashed out, but resumed his silence when the room crackled with tension.

“Don’t _make_ me.” She responded, rising to her feet. “I believe we’re done here, Christopher. Take a second and think about those medications again, think about consistent therapy. Think about the actuality of life, and not what your brain came up with. Don’t let your crazy delusions rule you.” She had the _audacity_ to touch his shoulder, her hand as cold as her heart. “You’re being pulled from work for a few days to reflect upon what has happened in this room. Our eyes are upon you, Christopher.”


	6. even old men can have fun.

Leon and Chris were staring at each other, eyebrows knitted together, mouths pinched, neither breaking eye contact.

“Okay, guys,” Claire grinned, holding the spinner in her hand. “Blue. You guys are lucky; toothpaste or berry blue.” She held the bowl of mixed jellybeans out to both boys, who both shared a wry look before fishing the right color out.

“Cheers,” Leon mumbled, throwing the jellybean in his mouth. Chris followed suit, and both of them remained hesitant until they began chewing.

In the background, Ada snorted, rolling her eyes at the expression Leon was making. His eyes were scrunched up, and his mouth was pinched to the point of his lips disappearing.

“Toothpaste?” Ada asked in her smooth, lilted voice, and Leon nodded.

“ _Ha_ ,” Chris snorted. “I’ve got blueberry.”

“Berry blue,” Sherry corrected from the back, and Chris shot her a dark look.

“Same difference. What’s the score at?” Chris sat up straighter as Leon gagged, reaching for a bottle of water to wash his mouth out.

“Nine for Covergirl, and eleven for the Jarhead. Got to get to fifteen to win.” Jake was lounging against the counter, whiteboard in hand. Idly, he updated the scores, not looking as Sherry came to lean beside him.

“Ready for another spin?” Claire asked, waving the board in their direction. “We can do a winner takes all situation.”

Leon looked over at Chris, and there was something in his eyes that made Chris’ stomach drop. “Why not?” Leon challenged.

“I have something that can make you shove that challenging tone up your ass,” Chris reached for the bowl, yanking it towards him. He could feel Leon’s wary gaze on him as he plunged his hand in, ruffling around before pulling out a handful of jellybeans. Without breaking eye contact with Leon, he shoved the handful in his mouth.

“Jesus, Chris,” Claire’s eyebrows were arched and she was leaning away. “Are you gonna puke?”

Chris, with his mouth filled and chewing in a grotesque manner, nodded. He was squinting slightly, and every moment or so he’d shudder, but after a minute he finally swallowed. Roughly, even a little painfully, but he swallowed.

“Dude, that was fucking  _gross_.” Jake was gagging. “I don’t know how you can do that, man.”

Leon put his hands up and got out of his chair. “I quit. There is  _no way_ I’m doing that.”

“That means I win?” Chris’ voice was strained, and his lips were tight, but he grinned in satisfaction nonetheless. “I  _win_!”

“Yes, yes you win.” Ada’s voice was cool. “If you vomit, you _will_ be cleaning it up.”

* * *

“Do you think I should go in there?” Claire’s voice was muffled, and Chris could hear her clothes shifting against the door. In response, he groaned, hearing Claire laugh.

“You shouldn’t have tried to win that way.” Leon joked through the door.

Chris heaved again, the bile burning the inside of his throat and mouth. He’d been at it for fifteen minutes now; why wasn’t he _done_?

“Next time don’t try and be so macho!” Jake sounded as if he was  _thoroughly_ enjoying this. If Chris had any energy left, he’d be looking to punch the asshole in the mouth.

“At least I won,” was all he could manage.

“Yeah, but was it worth it?” Sherry this time. “I don’t think vomiting is a fair reward for winning.”

“I’m glad I didn’t win if this is what I’d have been going through.”

 _Pile it on, guys._ Chris thought to himself.  _I still won._


	7. carrying the sins of our fathers.

“Do you know anything about an . . . Albert Wesker?”

His words threw Sherry for a loop. Hesitating, she looked at her clothes shoved messily in the locker, debating her response. Jake had never known his father; he grew up under the gentle guise of his mother and became a mercenary because he could. Sherry . . . she knew Albert. Better than she knew her own parents.

She looked down, the memories that she had repressed washing over her. Her parents and Albert had been friends for years before she was born. They worked together, and because of that, they became close. Albert had been around ever since she could remember, doting on her like no other.

Though the relationship between Albert and her parents always seemed strange, Sherry never noticed until everything fell apart. Once, she thought they were friends; now she knew better. Albert had been their superior, tolerating her father solely because of his intelligent mind and his work towards the G-virus. Her mother he seemed to like, but every interaction had been strained, and Albert had always been short-tempered with her father.

Because her parents were often too busy working to pay attention to her, Albert did their job for them whenever he felt up to it. He’d take her back to his apartment for the night, dote on her there, and then bring her home in the morning. She always referred to him as her uncle, always craving his love more than the love her parents gave.

She knew better now. Her parents, and Albert, were the bad guys. Though they tried their best to make their plans go through, they were still the bad guys, the people she now fought against.

“Yeah,” Sherry said quietly. “I know some stuff about him.” How would Jake feel knowing that she had a relationship with his father and he didn’t? She didn’t think that he would care too much, but then again, Sherry didn’t know him as well as she thought she did.

“So you know he’s my father?” Jake demanded, the aggression in his voice making her flinch.

“I was told on my briefing.” That wasn’t a lie. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you about him, not until I delivered you to my supervisor.” She slipped her shirt on over her head, having to wriggle into it. “But things didn’t exactly go to plan now, did they?”

Jake was silent for so long that Sherry feared he was going to snap. Then, he spoke, surprising her. “You’re not telling me something.”

Sherry exhaled through her nose, gathering all her courage. Only few people knew of the relationship she had had with Albert Wesker, she could count the amount on one hand. She preferred to keep it that way, but Jake was asking her for her truth, and Sherry couldn’t keep it from him.

“I don’t just know _of_ him, I _knew_ him. He and my parents worked closely together, on the T-virus, and my father on G-virus. Albert . . . bugged my father about it a lot. You could even say they were friends. He was around ever since I was born, and he was like an uncle to me. When my parents were too busy to see me, he would step up. Ever since I could remember, he treated me way better than my own parents.” She laughed bitterly. “He loved me in his own weird, twisted way. I didn’t know that he and my parents were the bad guys until after Raccoon City.”

If she was being truthful with herself, a little part of her had always known that her parents had never been as cut and dry as she believed. Annette and William Birkin had always snuck around the law, doing their experiments in the dank bowels of Raccoon City. Maybe Sherry refused to see the truth when she was little because she wanted her parents to be perfect, but she knew better now. That’s what she had to keep telling herself; she knew better than they did. 

“But he was a monster,” her voice got quiet. “Albert, my father . . . they were monsters.” Sherry closed her eyes, fighting against the memories that threatened to drag her under the surface. She remembered running through the tunnels of Raccoon City, fleeing for her life because God, her father was coming. The face she had known her whole life had been mutated, and he was coming after her not to take her away from this mess, but to breed. To infest her with the same disease that he had infected himself with, to make more of them. He needed her because she shared his DNA, because she would be the perfect host.

Jake was silent. Whether it was because he was absorbing the information, or for once he was at a loss for words, Sherry didn’t know. When he finally spoke, all he said was, “Oh,” and slammed his locker door shut. Sherry flinched at the resounding bang, hating how she had been so easily shaken by this. Jake was going to find out eventually, and it was better now, when she could explain everything to him without his anger getting in the way. 

“Let’s go.” Jake wasn’t looking at her, and he certainly wasn’t pleased with her. Sherry reluctantly shut her locker and followed after, bracing for the angry, stony silence that Jake was about to condemn her to.


	8. in all, you have me.

The car ride home from the main office was tense and uncomfortable. Though Leon wanted to fidget, he refrained, able to keep his discomfort with the heavy atmosphere under wraps. Luis would speak when he was ready . . . More like, Luis would yell at him and chew him out in the safety of their apartment where no one could look on or interrupt. He was already preparing himself for the long night that they were going to have, and though he was exhausted as hell, this needed to be hashed out.

_My grandfather told me to never go to bed angry_. 

As Luis pulled up in front of their apartment complex, Leon got out and let Luis lead the way, following him quietly up the flights of stairs until their front door loomed before them. Luis was holding the keys tightly in his grasp, his hand shaking as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. Using his shoulder, Luis propped it open to let Leon inside, and let it swing shut with a resounding _bang_.

Okay, so Luis was upset. Very upset. Noted.

He was already starting to work off his jacket and getting ready to say something when all of a sudden, he was shoved up against the closed front door, and Luis’ mouth was on his. Luis kissed with his teeth when he was angry. His hands were shoving off Leon’s jacket, though it was currently stuck halfway down his arms, his lips keeping Leon’s smart mouth occupied, and was such a firm, hard form against him that Leon was, honestly, surprised into being unresponsive at first.

This was . . . different. The angry makeup sex typically came _after_ they finished arguing, after Luis chewed Leon out for either taking risks on his mission or for failing to stay in contact. It would typically begin after Leon excuses himself, claiming that he needed a shower. He seemed to have a habit with Luis; whenever the Spaniard would get angry with him and resort to yelling in Spanish, it always seemed to have the wrong effect upon Leon. Once Luis would realize _why_ Leon was excusing himself, he’d huff and pull him in and it would be some of the best sex they’ve ever had. 

_“Eres tan estúpido, tan estúpido.”_ Luis was muttering against his lips, and Leon groaned. All he understood was ‘stupid’. So, Luis was probably calling him an idiot. Sounds about right. _“La próxima vez que me digan que estás muerto, te traeré de vuelta y te volveré a matar.”_  

“I have no idea what you’re s–saying, _hey_ , but that sounds hot.” The stammer in his voice came from Luis latching onto his neck, teeth allowing no mercy as they tugged almost viciously on his skin.

_“¡Cállate!”_ Luis snapped, and Leon pressed his lips into a thin line.

Luis was more pissed than he originally thought.

His jacket hit the floor with a soft swish of leather, and before he knew it Luis was yanking his shirt over his head. It was off and on the floor in a flash, and just as quickly, Luis was latched onto him. Luis’ hands, typically so gentle, were rough and claiming; they spared Leon no reprieve as they ran over the bruises, over the broken bones, touching against every little injury that he received from the moment he killed the president, to the moment in which he and Helena put Simmons down for good.

When Luis’ mouth latched onto the jagged lump on his collarbone, where it was confirmed that something had been broken there, Leon couldn’t help but gasp in a mixture of both pain and strange, tingling pleasure. His left hand tangled in Luis’ hair whilst the right clamped over his mouth, stifling any further noises that would come from him. _Fuck_ , it hurt, but he figured that’s what the Spaniard was going for. Punishment.

_I didn’t mean to worry you; I didn’t want any of this to have happened_. He wants to say to Luis, to defend himself and the decisions he had made in the heat of the moment, but he doesn’t. When their heads are clear, and when Luis is ready to listen, he will.

Just as Leon was about to open his mouth, to ask for Luis to have some mercy and touch him where he really wants to be touched, is when he feels it. The strange, warm wetness on his chest. Leon blinks a few times, trying to force his brain to catch up with what’s happening, when he hears Luis mutter.

_“Vete a la mierda, León.”_ Luis curses, his voice so raspy and broken that Leon immediately knows what’s happening. He’s crying. Luis is _crying_.

“Hey, hey, Luis, what’s wrong?” _Long ‘u’, long ‘e’_. The instructions that had been drilled into his head on how to pronounce his name come flooding back. It’s been years since Leon has slipped up and called him the dreaded _Louise_ , and the sudden appearance of the thought makes him want to laugh. “Talk to me, what’s wrong?”

_“¿Qué no está mal? Me dijeron que estás muerto y, sin embargo, aquí estás, viviendo.”_ The amount of venom in his voice is so startling that Leon wishes he could put some space between them, but he’s trapped between Luis and the door. _“Me despedí de ti y aquí estás, aquí de pie, y mi corazón está lleno de confusión y pena. ¡Podría golpearte por hacerme esto! ¡No puedo creer las bolas que tienes, León!”_

Luis was talking so fast that Leon couldn’t catch a single word that he had said. Through the years that they’ve been together, he had been learning some Spanish so that he could keep up with Luis when he went on his tangents, but his head was spinning with arousal, confusion and exhaustion, and he just couldn’t _think_. He had never heard Luis speak in such a tone before, nor had he ever heard him get this riled up.

“English, Luis, _please_.” Tiredly, Leon gently pried Luis’ face from his chest, getting a good look at his bleary eyes and stained cheeks. This wasn’t anger anymore, this was bone–deep exhaustion and grief, and Leon’s heart sunk into the pit of his stomach.

_“No puedo hacerlo más, León.”_ Luis whispers, and Leon gets the meaning of the sentence before he translates. “I can’t do it anymore.”

Leon closes his eyes. Hunnigan had told him on the flight back to the States that before she could get to Luis, one of Simmons’ sneaky double–crossing agents had told Luis the bad news. Leon had requested that Hunnigan put himself and Helena into the system as deceased so they could get the jump on Simmons, but no one was supposed to tell Luis that he had died. Hunnigan had promised that she’d get there, that she’d tell him that Leon was fine and in China and just hiding, but the damage had already been done.

There had always been trouble between them, what with Leon disappearing for his missions and failing to contact both Hunnigan and home. He got in a way whenever he was out on the field, where he was so focused and so ready to do whatever it took that it didn’t matter to him that he wasn’t checking in with anyone; all that mattered was that the job got done. When he went to the Eastern Slav Republic and temporarily lost his American citizenship, Luis had given him hell for it. But this, this was different. Leon had been declared dead by a D.S.O. operative to Luis’ face, and Luis had believed it.

Believed it because the president was dead. Believed it because Leon and Helena had been marked as traitors. Believed it because there was no plausible way he had escaped the infested city alive. Luis was weak from the _plaga_ , he couldn’t handle the emotional roller–coaster that Leon had been condemning him to for so many years now. His throat tightened.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He felt like a broken record. Every time they had this conversation, Leon always said the same things. _I’ll check in more. I’ll stop being so evasive. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again_. And every time they’re back in _this_ situation, with Luis reprimanding him, he falls back on the broken promises. But, even Leon had hit his breaking point. This was the first mission that he feared he wasn’t going to come home. He knew it was going to end one of two ways; Leon was going to kill Simmons, or Leon was going to die trying. The latter had been the more plausible option and the fact that he was still _alive_ was so surprising to him that he knew that this, this is where he needed to stop.

He wasn’t going to give up work, no. He was just going to take work closer to home. He wasn’t going to go overseas anymore, not unless it could be prevented. No more dangerous unnecessary hero bullshit. After all these years, he just needed a break. He needed to be able to feel safe in his own home, to feel okay at work without knowing that he was going to be flown somewhere to deal with the next big issue at any given moment. He wanted to come home to a happy Luis and have dinner with him and watch cheesy movies on the couch until Luis falls asleep and Leon has to wake him up to guide him to bed and —

He wants domestic. He wants normal.

“I know I’ve said it before, I’ve said it a lot, but this time I’m done. I’m staying. You have me, all of me, home.” He’s cupping Luis’ jaw, looking into his dark eyes and seeing what he knew he would see; doubt. There’s no anger, just sadness and doubt. Leon’s heart breaks a little more. “I promise.”

 


End file.
